


Dread Pirate Stilinski

by valleyradionerd



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, BAMF Lydia Martin, Badass!Laura, F/F, F/M, M/M, Pirate!Stiles, Princess!Derek, Sarcasm, True Love, pining!derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyradionerd/pseuds/valleyradionerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He found Stiles poking at several long scratches on his (pale, freckled, stupidly attractive) chest.</p><p>“Did you try to pick it up?”</p><p>“Look, dude, chicken herding is apparently part of my job description, and apparently chickens don't like being herded, and it was just going further astray, and,” Stiles stopped, “you don't give a shit, do you?”</p><p>“Do we still have a chicken?”</p><p>“You still have many chickens.”</p><p>“Do we still have that chicken?”</p><p>“Because I am a truly heroic human being who deserves all the rewards? Yes. Did you want something, sourface?”</p><p> </p><p>A timeless tale of warring countries, warring species, and warring crazies, true lurrrrve, and the occasional chicken. Also? Pirates.</p><p>Note: back from hiatus! I'm finishing this, I swear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
> Seriously. Not Teen Wolf. Not Princess Bride. Nada. (like that's a surprise) Except for an extreme fondness for women in men's clothing and a strong conviction that Derek? Is the poutiest, most fantastic princess ever.
> 
> Beta’d (in part, because I got impatient) by my lovely Hedgepigs (or really, just one of them at this point. Get on it, you two!) Constructive criticism always welcome.

Derek wasn't entirely comfortable when his parents started using indentured labor.

“It's much more economical,” Talia Hale had said, at her son's pinched expression, plucking her magnifying glasses off of the table, “and I know how long they'll stay. The last lovely lad I employed somehow,” she raised an eyebrow, “decided to leave halfway through the harvest. And I never did find out why he just up and disappeared.”

(Reality was that the poor boy had a horrible self esteem issue and when Derek had snapped at him for being slow or useless one too many times the boy had left, deciding that a life on the road was easily more appealing than being yelled at day in and day out.)

Which was how Stiles came to be a regular presence in Derek's life.

He tried to ignore him, he really did. Tried to keep their conversation to an absolute minimum. Tried to ignore the raised eyebrows and teasing smirks. Derek had his own work to do, books and assessments that took actual brains, not just idiot muscle. The boy was just there to do what he was told in order to pay off his father's massive debt, a farm lost to too little help and too many bad winters before it had chance to settle in like the Hale estate. Stilinski senior was serving his own time on the brute squad, and, honestly, basic farm work was probably safer and cleaner for his child. Not that Stiles was just a kid, scrawny and accident prone as he was. No, he was grown up enough to be a distraction, wandering the stables shirtless and gleaming, and Derek didn't need any distractions.

Laura had caught him staring once (it hadn't really been staring. More...zoning off in Stiles' general direction), and grinned at him like the old lecher stuck in a young woman's body that she was before wandering off to lean against a stable, her collar tugged halfway down her shoulder, baring deeply tanned skin.

(She was sneaking off to sunbathe naked again. Derek knew it. Someone was going to catch her someday and then where would she be? Where would they all be, with the stigma that would come with her being branded as some sort of ...slattern.)

Stiles' warm chuckle was followed by Laura's laugh and Derek stalked back into the house. He had work to do, after all.

 

He was going through their sales books in the warm light of the kitchen window when Stiles came inside with the water for the day's washing. The boy hovered over him, neatly blocking out his sunlight. Derek tried to restrain his urge to turn and scowl at him.

“Your sister's kinda an asshole, you know that, right?” Stiles said, but when Derek turned to look at him he was smiling.

“Fuck off.”

Stiles shrugged, “as you wish.”

 

Two days later found Derek balancing precariously on the ladder to the hayloft, trying to assess just how much it was probably going to cost to re-shingle the roof on the barn and knowing that he should have someone else in to do it. He was poking tentatively at what looked like a loose shingle (hiding behind a truly monstrous spider that he had to tell himself out loud, if under his breath, he was not allowed to be scared of) with a stick when the shingle slid from the roof of the barn, sending a cascade of dirt and spiders and other shingles down after it, down the roof and in to the barn itself. Derek certainly did not scream, but he may have let out a manly yelp of surprise, nearly losing his grip on the ladder as he tried to duck away from the rush of dust and spiders. He grabbed (absolutely without flailing) at the ladder to steady himself, dropping the stick he had been using to test the shingles.

It landed directly on the cow below him, who let out a completely unearthly bellow and promptly turned into a marauding beast, hell bent on toppling the ladder and breaking his neck. He wrapped his arms around the ladder, trying to clutch at the remains of the roof to keep himself upright.

Then the ladder stilled and there was a soft voice below him.

“Ssssh, it's alright. Steady there, girl, Everything's fine.”

Derek glared down at Stiles, who had one hand on the ladder, and was...

Talking to the cow. Oh.

“If you're done comforting that animal, please remove her so I can come down,” Derek snapped.

Stiles looked up at him, “are you okay?”

“Of course.”

“It's just...you look a little, y'know, rattled, dude.”

Derek gritted his teeth and did his utmost not to flash fangs at the idiot boy, “that _thing_ nearly knocked me down and broke my neck. I have a right to be rattled.” It didn't matter that he would probably have been fine in the long run. It was the principle of the thing.

“Woah,” Stiles said, “maybe put the ladder somewhere other than behind Bessie next time. It's not her fault she kicks when she gets nervous,” still, he was untying said cow's lead as he spoke and nudging her gently out of the stall toward the center of the barn. Derek waited until she was well out of kicking distance to climb back down.

“What were you doing up there anyway?” Stiles asked when Derek was firmly on the ground and Bessie back in her stall.

“The barn roof needs shingling.”

“Oh. Do you want me to--”

“I can do it,” Derek cut him off. He did not need Stiles parading around half naked on the barn roof. On Derek's project. Where Derek would have to supervise him. And by supervise he meant...yeah, no.

“Still, I could help if you'd like. It's what I'm here for, anyway.”

“I'd rather work alone.”

Stiles shrugged, “as you wish.”

 

The day the Countess and Count came through the town was never a good one. It wasn't exactly that they were demanding, or brutal, or cruel but everyone expected them to be, and there was always surrounding them this air that the attitude might suddenly surface.

It was the Count who came to the Hale land that day, a tall blonde man, too tan for his hair color with striking blue eyes that could have been carved from opals.

That hard, that rocky, that downright unreal. _(If they had been real he wouldn't have been able to see very well now, would he?)_

As the Countess' brother and surrogate he had the right to inspect the Princess' lands in her absence, the right to collect taxes.

The right to ask questions.

Derek was bringing out the financial ledgers at his mother's request when he saw him, standing too proudly by the table his mother had set outside with china that they rarely used inside. Laura had even been pressed into service, standing beside the table with a pitcher of wine, with a rictus grin stretched over her face.

Luckily the Count's eyes didn't seem to be on her, but when Derek tracked his gaze it landed unquestionably on--

Stiles.

Stiles, who was shirtless and laughing, chasing a barely visible chicken out of the cornfield in the distance.

“You took on an indenture?” the Count asked Derek's mother. She nodded.

“We've known his family for years. They would not accept charity.”

“I see. I'd like to speak to him.”

“Certainly,” Talia Hale turned a hard look on her son, taking the ledgers from his hands, “Derek, could you ask Stiles to join us? And perhaps to put on a shirt?”

The count waved his hand, dismissively, “it's a farm, it's fine.”

Derek could see Laura squirming with the urge to talk, probably bursting to say something like, 'yeah, mom, don't want to assault the royalty with Stiles' nipples or anything.'

Not that Derek would ever think about Stiles nipples.

He found Stiles poking at several long scratches on his (pale, freckled, stupidly attractive) chest.

“Did you try to pick it up?”

“Look, dude, chicken herding is apparently part of my job description, and apparently chickens don't like being herded, and it was just going further astray, and,” Stiles stopped, “you don't give a shit, do you?”

“Do we still have a chicken?”

“You still have many chickens.”

“Do we still have that chicken?”

“Because I am a truly heroic human being who deserves all the rewards? Yes. Did you want something, sourface?”

“Chris Argent would like to meet you.”

“Wait. You mean like, _Count_ Argent?”

“Do you know any others?”

“I don't know, there could be. Should I, like, go wash up or something?”

“He didn't seem to care. But you might not want to look like you went a round with a wolf and lost.”

“That's good to know.”

“What?”

“That if I went a round with a wolf I would get off this easy,” Stiles grinned, “heh, get off." His elbow moved as if he was going to try to jostle Derek in the ribs, and Derek reached out to stop him before it could connect only to find himself suddenly supporting all of the boy's (ridiculous, lanky limbed) weight as Stiles tripped over the only goddamn rock in the entire field.

Or possibly his own ridiculously huge feet.

Stiles hands wrapped tightly around Derek's arm as he hauled himself upright, pink and laughing.

Really, really pink. Derek could smell his blood rushing up close to his skin, his hear his heartbeat thundering as he pushed himself upright using Derek's forearm for a lever.

“Sorry, dude.” Stiles was upright, but not moving away, his skin hot against Derek's. Which made no sense. Humans ran cooler than wolves. It was a thing.

“Try not to kill yourself in front of the Count, would you?”

“As you wish.”

 

Stiles only took his hand off Derek's arm when he ducked around the back of the house to grab a shirt, coming out the front door fully dressed, if still sweaty.

Derek was grateful that the Count was very publicly not a werewolf.

Except where Stiles should have smelled like sweat and chickens he smelled like...fuck, Derek didn't know. Sunshine and snark? Crazy people?

Derek wasn't sure, but he might be going crazy himself.

“Mr. Stilinski, Talia was just telling me what a help you've been.”

“Ah, yeah, thanks,” Stiles scrubbed a hand against the back of his head, making his hair stand up at even more odd and extreme angles, “I'm just, you know, grateful that they offered. And Mr. Stilinski is my father.”

“Who I'm sure is very reassured that you're in such a safe, stable environment.”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“Your father is the Stilinski on the Brute Squad, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“I believe we've met. He is a good man.”

“He's a fucking great man,” Stiles snapped, “and yet that didn't keep us in our house, did it now?” he's flushed and on the edge of hyperventilating, and, oh dear god, Derek is embarrassed for him. Laura looks like she's going to have to put down that pitcher to cover her asshole mouth that is splitting into the most unattractive grin.

Talia's mouth was a tight line, “Count-”

Count Argent's strange, thin lipped mouth tilted up into a twisted half grin, “I'm afraid, Mr. Stilinski, that our personal feelings have to be set aside in the face of following laws.”

“Isn't the whole point of having humans in charge that we don't just blindly follow some set of hundred year old edicts?”

And, fuck, could the boy dig himself any deeper?

“Which is why the court of appeals is open on a daily basis.”

“It's a little hard to get there when you're working two jobs to try and make a tax payment.”

Argent's grin grew a little, “if you need a sponsor, Mr. Stilinski, I would be overjoyed to make sure that you get your chance to stand in front of the judges. I believe it would be an education for everyone.”

And the idiot boy had just gotten himself threatened by a man who answered only to the Princess' second in command and the Princess herself. Derek couldn't decide if he wanted to step between the boy and the Count, push Stiles back until he was somewhere safe, or if he just wanted to distance himself as far as he could.

Talia's face had gone white, and her twitching hand was the only indication that her thoughts might be running along similar lines as her son's.

“Are you threatening to have me arrested for treasonous speech? Isn't that a little archaic?” Stiles voice broke into a squeak in the middle of the question.

Argent blinked, almost as if he had been startled, “that was not at all my intention. You are a fascinating young man, I think you could be doing a great deal more than just...herding chickens.”

“I like herding chickens, thanks.”

“Would you ever consider going to university?”

“The nearest is two days away by ship, and my dad is still here, never mind the whole, you know, money thing.”

“The money thing does not have to be a problem.”

And- _whatthefuck_ \- wasn't the count married? He couldn't possibly be offering what it sounded like he was offering.

Except there was that glint in the Count's eye and, yeah, it really did look like he was offering that. Which was absurd! He was old enough to be Stiles' father, and then there was the whole class difference.

He looked like he wanted to eat Stiles for breakfast. Lunch and dinner, too, maybe. Not that the scrawny boy would make that many meals.

Not that Stiles wasn't fucking edible.

Where the fuck had that thought come from?

And Derek, not as suddenly as his heart rate seemed to think, could feel the heat of Stiles hands on his arm like they had left a brand and he was holding onto his control by his claws, ready to leap for the Count's throat if he so much as twitched towards Stiles.

Stiles. Who was nearly naked under that hastily donned shirt.

“I'm good, thanks.” Stiles was fidgeting as if he was about a minute away from squirming where he stood. Derek could practically feel every tiny movement as if the air between them was some solid thing that Stiles could manipulate.

“Would you like anymore wine, Count?” Talia asked, stepping back, as far as Derek could tell, right onto Laura's foot. His sister, to her credit, didn't so much as let out a hint of the laughter she was clearly holding in. She could, undoubtedly, hear his racing heart, feel the rage about to rush out of him.

She was never going to let him live it down if he shifted.

The count shook his head, “I should keep moving,” he smiled oddly at Siles, “if you ever find yourself in need of a change of occupation, Mr. Stilinski, you know where to find me.”

Derek heard Stiles snort under his breath, the lost breath more a huff of disbelief than derision, “uh, thanks,” it sounded like he was having a bit of trouble getting the words out, “I think I have to go...feed the chickens. Or maybe the cows. Or. Something. Yeah. Thanks. Good to meet you,” and he left in a flurry of limbs, only tripping over a lump in the ground once or twice. Derek had to dig his half clawed nails into the palm of his hand to keep himself from shifting, loping after Stiles, who wasn't running like prey so much taking lead in a chase.

And dear God did Derek want to follow him.

When he turned back to where his mother was bidding goodbye to the Count he realized that he wasn't the only one staring at Stiles retreating back. Those strange, bright blue eyes kept darting past Talia to the boy beyond.

Derek stalked into the house. It was rude, sure, but not as rude as it would have been to stab the eyes out of the Princess' emissary with his claws.

 

When Stiles came back inside to find dinner some hours later Laura met him at the door with a blow to his back that damn near knocked him sprawling right into Derek.

“Nice _going_ , Stilinski.”

“Are you _kidding_?” Stiles squeaked, catching himself on Derek's shoulder, “I'm lucky I'm not dead.”

“Nah,” Laura brushed by them both, going to pick meat off the chicken the cook had made for dinner (and Talia had expressly told them to leave alone until then) “only death he wanted to give you was a little one.”

“You're a horrible person.”

“You love me.”

“No, I really, really don't.”

“I'm totally your favorite, admit it.”

“Derek's my favorite and you know it.”

Stiles hand was still on Derek's shoulder and that statement really shouldn't have made his heart stutter and Laura, the asshole, was grinning at him like a fucking deathmask.

 

“He likes you, you know.” Laura said, that evening, throwing herself dramatically down on the table Derek was attempting to use for work.

“What?”

“Don't be obtuse,” Laura sneered at him, pulling the papers he was going over right out from under his hands.

“Hey!”

“I know when you're hiding from me, dumbass,” and really, you'd think that into their twenties Laura would have stopped holding things out of his reach above her head.

Yeah, you'd be wrong.

Laura leaned down right into his face, her teeth way too sharp for someone who wasn't at all wolfed out, and really he didn't want that close a view of his sister's nostrils.

“Laura.”

“Shut up and listen to me, Puppy.”

“What?” Apparently Laura was immune to The Scowl. She would be.

Laura's finger jabbed into his chest hard enough that it would probably leave a bruise, which really shouldn't happen but Laura had a tendency to fuck 'shouldn't' over in her wake. “Stiles, dumbutt. He likes you. Probably wants to have your puppies or lick your unnaturally pale abs, you need to get more sun.”

“Some of us would rather not wander the county naked,” Derek mumbled.

Laura waved dismissively, “prude. Anyway, the point is- he's going to leave, you know.”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes, “Stiles, doofus. I mean, really? Argent just offered to pay for him to go to school _anywhere_ , and he'd probably only have to put out once or twice.”

“He won’t leave his father.”

Laura snorted (extremely unattractively, in Derek’s humble opinion), “Stilinski Sr. would boot Stiles out face first into the world if he knew he had the chance to go to university and then, very circumspectly, turn the Count into mincemeat if he ever tried to collect payment. He’s good like that,” she looked singularly pleased with the concept.

Derek grimaced, “and you think I’m the one with a crush on a Stilinski?”

“I’m fond of the man, I’ll admit, but that’s not the same thing as you wanting to make Stiles your sex kitten.”

“Laura!”

“He’s all over you like a cheap coat at every chance he gets, and just because you’re being purposefully obtuse doesn’t mean that the rest of us have stopped using our senses.”

“It could mean anything.”

Which, yeah, might be admitting that he noticed Stiles’ radiating heat, his rabbiting heartbeat. But the boy had always been hyperactive, it didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“His heart doesn’t beat triple time when he’s just around me, you know. Not even that time with the wolverine.”

“That was so goddamn stupid, Laura.”

“Logan would have been the perfect pet, you and mom are just too uptight. Anyway, no changing the subject, Puppy. What are you going to do about Stiles?”

“Nothing.”

Laura was suddenly right back up in his face, “what do you mean, nothing?”

Derek pulled back as far as he could manage without getting up, because that would require wrenching Laura’s arms off at the shoulders to dislodge her death grip on his chair, “it would be completely inappropriate, it reeks of coercion.”

“The way that boy wants you? No it wouldn’t.”

“Laura, just because your morals have a wide grey area--”

He barely noticed Laura’s clawed hand twisting into his hair before his face was slammed down into the table.

“I don’t even care,” Laura growled, “that you just implied that I might _rape_ someone, but you’re _hurting_ yourself, and Stiles, and I’m seriously fucking sick of it. Got me, puppy?”

“The fuck?” Derek, head still pressed to the table, blamed Laura’s sweat and rage for the fact that he didn’t hear, didn’t smell, didn’t at all sense Stiles until there was a tiny, useless weight pulling at Laura, “Laura” Stiles shrieked some foot above him, “what are you doing? Let him up!”

The kid was trying to fucking save him from his sister.

The fuck.

He could hear the table cracking under his head...under the pressure of Laura’s hand on his head.

As if there was ever any doubt as to who was going to be the next alpha. Derek knew struggling against her was useless, it had been ever since Laura was thirteen and realized that she _could_ win everything.

“I’m going to go get Talia,” Stiles hissed, and Laura’s hand was off his head so fast that his head came upright reflexively, like a released balloon.

“We were just playing,” Laura said, smirking at Derek.

“Laura!” Stiles yelped, “your ‘just playing’ put a Derek’s head shaped dent in the table!”

“The table will be fine,” Laura said, pushing herself off of said table.

“Haha, you’re funny,” Stiles scuttled in closer to Derek. (Who, yeah, was rubbing his head. Werewolves healed, they weren’t impervious to pain.) “Are you okay?”

Laura’s snort was loud and clear to Derek’s ears, even as she sauntered out the door.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles hands pushed Derek’s away, petting through his hair to check, presumably for claw marks.

“Yes,” Derek turned in his chair and stood, expecting Stiles to step back and out of his way.

He didn’t.

“Ah,” Stiles heart was racing, far faster than it had been when he was confronting Laura. “Derek,” his fingers landed on Derek’s cheek, pushing at his face till he turned to let Stiles check the red marks left by his encounter with the table. “She’s nuts,” Stiles snorted, shaking his head. Derek had heard that tone before, with Stiles laughing over Laura draped naked on the roof to get the full effect of the sun, but he had never heard the boy’s voice shake under it.

Fuck Laura for being right all the time, anyway.

Derek let his own hand lift to mirror Stiles’, resting against Stiles’ cheek, feeling the radiating warmth as he leant in, heart thundering in his ears so loud he could hear nothing else. Stiles tasted of iron and grass and _want_ , and Derek was enraptured.

And Stiles was pulling away.

“I...have to go,” Stiles, heart still racing, face like a tomato, dashed out the door, trailing the scent of chickens and want.

Fuck.

He was going to kill Laura.

Sometime after he killed himself.

Fuck.

What had he been thinking? He had to see Stiles every day.

Unless Stiles decided that Derek had forced himself on him, he could go to the Count, who clearly liked him, who probably more than liked him, who could make Derek’s life miserable.

Worse, Stiles could go to _Talia_. Who would find him somewhere else to work. Send Derek off to the Antipodes.

Make him talk about his _feelings_. Feelings like 'see, Laura, this is why I was never going to say anything.' Because now Stiles might _leave_ , and, beyond legal repercussions, beyond humiliation and torment from Laura or the count, the concept of not having Stiles around-- to look at (not ogle, thanks Laura), to laugh at, to _enjoy_ , even when Stiles was laughing at him-- made everything seem ... bleak.

It was an unforgiving thought that he couldn't get out of his brain. What if Stiles left? They would lose the best farmhand Talia had ever found. Lose the boy who could make his mother laugh until she cried, who worked with his father on the useless, decorative chicken coop, and Henry would come inside filthy and sunburnt and grinning from ear to ear. (Because, let's face it, Derek had never been one for unnecessary building projects, and while Laura was all for unnecessary she had a tendency to wander off in the middle of things.)

Stiles, who made Derek stop in his self-assigned tasks to look up in feigned exasperation at the chattering in his ear, only to be struck all over again by the boy's strange and fascinating beauty.

Only to have said boy laugh in his face.

He never should have believed Laura.

 

He was still sitting, slumped over the table, when there was a knock from the doorway behind him.

And, _fuck_ , once again he had been so caught up in his own head that he hadn't noticed Stiles standing behind him.

“Hey dude, can I talk to you?”

Derek gritted his teeth, already hurting in anticipation of the conversation to come, “you made yourself perfectly clear.”

Stiles, unbidden, stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him (only a gesture of privacy, really, in a house full of werewolves) “you freaked me out!”

“I gave you plenty of time to move away.”

‘I didn’t want to move away. I just- look, you know how you tell me to shut up all the time because I talk too much? My brain is like that times, like, a thousand. You have no idea how much I manage to keep unsaid. I just...I couldn’t process.”

“What are you saying?”

“Oh my god, are you dumb? Or just deaf?”

Derek scowled, “so you're saying you like me?"

"I'm saying I love you, grumpy-pants. God only knows I couldn’t tell you why, you’re an asshole.”

"Then why--"

"Seriously, do werewolves go deaf?" And Stiles _lunged_.

 

"I love you, too," Derek managed to mutter against Stiles lips some long (eons, millennia of sweet, warm, perfect) moments later.

"I know, genius."

"You...know?"

"Derek," Stiles sighed, "I've met you. You're not going to so much as hug anyone without debating it six ways till Sunday first."

"I don't--"

"Derek, I love you, but shut up and kiss me."

Derek couldn't quite help but smile as he leaned back in, "as you wish."

 

Derek's father wandered in without knocking what might have been a half hour later.

"I'm glad you boys are communicating, but could you maybe do it somewhere that's not on the dining room table?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is over-dramatic. Stiles is stubborn. Kate is an asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek has some suicidal thoughts in this chapter and the next and does *not* deal with them particularly well, just has a heads up.

They got engaged.  


It basically went like this:  


“Your mom loves me more than she loves you.”  


“That’s because you’re a suck up,” Derek said, not even glancing up from where he was bent over the table, the last year’s winter expenses laid out in front of him.  


“Well,” and Derek could hear Stiles smirking, “you would know.”  


“Stiles! That’s my mother!”  


“Yep. Ten out of ten for grumpy pants.”  


“She’s _family_.”  


“Wow, you’re on fire today.”  


“You’re an asshole,” but Derek couldn’t help but grinning.  


“That’s why you love me,” Stiles said, flinging himself into Derek’s lap, scattering the papers he had been working on  


“Apparently,” and really he must, because his work was in drifts on the floor and all he was focused on was Stiles, squirming against him.  


Jesus, he _loved_ this idiot boy.  


“Marry me.”  


“What?” Stiles stilled, his hands coming up to hold Derek’s face, catching his eyes, “really?”  


“...yeah,” Derek said quietly, “yeah, I mean, if you want to.”  


“Well, duh,” Stiles leaned forward to nuzzle against Derek’s lips, “love you. I was going to ask you, you know. I had it all planned out and everything. Horseback ride along the cliffs, picnic on the beach, the whole shebang.”  


“I hate horses,” Derek said, “and sand.”  


“I know, dummy,” Stiles kissed him softly, “was gonna ask you when your parents went into town next week and we had the house to ourselves.”  


“Oh.”  


“Have to lock you down before I leave, don’t I?”  


Derek froze, skin crawling, icy even against Stiles’ warmth.  


“What?”  


“Shit. Shit,” Stiles clutched Derek’s hands, “I was gonna talk to you about this, I swear. Wasn’t gonna just spring it on you like this.”  


“Leave?”  


“I...Derek, my indenture’s up this fall. My dad’ll have his house back. I...there’s a ship going to America. I wanted...fuck. I don’t _want_ to leave you, you’ve gotta know that. But I gotta-- I’ve never been anywhere, and you know your mom gave me this job out of pity. I gotta go do something on my own.”  


“Why?”  


“Because you wouldn’t love me if I settled for just ‘content’.”  


Which-- he was right. He loved Stiles _because_ he pushed, never settled, never stopped, but...fuck.  


“You could,” Stiles said quietly, “you could come with me.”  


Derek choked, “I can’t.”  


“Why not?,” Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek, leaning in to create a little cave of warmth, just between the two of them, “we could- it would be _awesome_ , Derek. We could go on adventures together.”  


Derek just wanted to live in the little space with Stiles, but the concept of...“I can’t leave. Laura’s not going to be back for at least two years yet, and I...I can’t.” Honestly, he wasn’t ready. The entire concept terrified him. Even with Stiles along.  


“Laura left for her adventure months ago, your parents would be fine.” They got letters from her occasionally, usually soggy and dirty and smelling of very distant places.  


Derek shook his head, “I…”  


“Okay,” Stiles curled against him, cuddling him close, “okay. But- we’re engaged, right? I’ll come back, I can’t leave forever, and we’ll get married. We can live here, if that’s what you want.”  


“Yes,” though Derek couldn’t help but think that he still had time, that maybe he could talk Stiles out of it.  


*************************  


Somehow, still, when Stiles' indenture was up, Derek found himself in the uncomfortable position of being near to begging for something he hadn't known he wanted in the first place.  


But Stiles was still _leaving_ , and nothing Derek had thought of to say would stop him. Derek had spent a full week quoting ship casualty statistics at him (wrecks, storms, malnutrition, accidental overboards, spontaneous combustion...) with no results. On the day of Stiles' departure he was at his last resort.  


“Don't go,’ Derek hated the crack his voice, knew the desperation was creeping through.  


“I have to,” it was a little reassuring, at least, that Stiles’ voice wobbled, that his hand clutched at Derek’s shirt even as he stood in the doorway with his pack on his back, “my indenture's up, my dad has a house again and I need to go do something, Derek.”  


“You can work here.”  


“We talked about this. I gotta make something of myself, and I can't be dependant on you, or on Chris fucking Argent.”  


“I don't want you to go.”  


“So come with me.”  


“I...can't.” Because Laura still wasn't back, and granting that was just a massive excuse- he still wasn’t ready.  
Stiles laughed wetly, “I feel like an idiot asking you to wait for me.” He let go of Derek’s shirt, brushing at his chest as if wiping away dust.  


Derek shoved him towards the door, “you're going to be late,” and a second later, his voice quieter, “I'll be here.”  
Stiles' shoulders were hunched under the straps of his bag, all his possessions, and then suddenly he was right there, in Derek's face, dragging him forward by the back of his head to kiss him.

  


...In the history of the world there have been seven kisses rated the most desperate, the most violent.  


This one maybe rated in the top twenty.  


Which is actually pretty high, considering.

  


Stiles still left. 

  


He got letters from Stiles. Scrawled nearly illegibly across the nice stationery Talia had sent him off with. Random tangents about towns, half built cathedrals, ships, his ship (The Queen's Pride) all punctuated with the weirdest little love notes.  


 _Miss you like burning. Miss your ridiculous eyebrows, do they miss me, too? I should have talked them off your face and brought them with me to remind me of you_.  


The letters slowed once Stiles was at sea, but did not stop. Derek couldn't help the smile at the thought of Stiles harassing some poor fisherman, who just happened to be drifting in the right direction, into being his mail carrier. 

Eventually they slowed to the point where they seemed to have stopped.  


Derek didn't worry. Told himself that he was surprised Stiles had any time to write to him in the first place, that Stiles was undoubtedly just busy, or couldn't find anyone to berate into being his postman. They had to be nearly across the ocean by now. 

Derek was returning inside from checking the progress on the roof when he heard, at the very edge of his hearing, (which is saying something for a werewolf),  


_“For god's sake, who's going to tell Derek?”_  


“Tell Derek what?” he asked the empty hallway, knowing full well his mother could hear him.  


“We're in the kitchen, dear.”  


Which, well, that didn't bode well. Because the last time his mother had called him dear his dog had been dead.  


Which was probably why, when he saw the letter in his father's hands the first thing out of his mouth was, “who's dead?”  


“Ah,” his father, now that he looked at him more closely looked a little bit ashen, and Derek found himself nauseous.  


“Is Laura okay?”  


“Laura's fine, dear,” his mother said, only serving to worry him more, “why don't you have a seat?”  


“How about you have a drink,” his father suggested.  


“What,” Derek barely managed to grind out, “is going on?”  


His mother's hand on his shoulder pressed him firmly into the kitchen chair as his father handed over the letter. From one of his mother's contacts in America. _The Queen's Pride_ had been taken by pirates.  


None of the crew was left alive.  


It was the Dread Pirate Roberts, though, so that had to count for something.  


Being murdered by someone famous was good, right?  


“Derek-” Talia hadn't taken her hand off her son's shoulder. She glanced up at her husband, who got up from the table to stand next to her.  


“That idiot,” Derek ground out, “I told him.”  


“He might have...”  


“He's dead,” Derek pushed himself out of his chair.  


“Derek,” his dad started, but it was his mother who caught him by the elbow.  


“Don't do anything stupid.”  


“What,” Derek snapped, “like go running off to America?”  


“Son-”  


“I just--” Derek felt like he was speaking through frog and cotton wool, his throat parched and amphibian and gasping, “I need to be alone.”  


“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” his father said.  


“I’m fine,” Derek managed, “it’s not like I really expected him to come back.”  


His parents both frowned at that, but let him leave.

  


He sat on the roof of the farmhouse, as if that would bring him closer to Laura, He needed a bit of her crassness.  


He needed his sister. To tell him he was being an idiot, that Stiles had been an idiot, that if he didn’t stop crying she was going to grind his face into the nearest cowpat and give him something to cry about.  


Dealing with this without Laura had not been part of the plan.  


The plan, clearly, had failed.  


It had been a dumb idea anyway. Marriage. Love. Him? He could barely even talk to people without offending them,  


To be fair, Stiles was just as much of an asshole.  


Had been just as much of an asshole.  


His whole body shuddered, as if resisting the thought, and suddenly he couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t keep his footing, couldn’t…  


He was falling off the roof, and all he could think was that catching himself would be such a bother, and he didn’t want to.  


He hit the ground with a crack that jolted all the air out of him, felt his bones split.  


When his bones had healed enough to move he thumped his head against the ground.  


That had been idiotic. He was a goddamn werewolf, and the roof was not that goddamn high. Even Stiles would have survived that fall.  


Stiles would have at least tried to catch himself.  


Before.  


And, fuck, the whole thing was clearly a terrible idea. Obviously he was not cut out for the whole romance thing, which is what he should have told Laura in the first place. Told her to fuck off, he wasn’t partaking in any of that shit.  


And after this- he wouldn’t. He was done.  


No more goddamn romance for Derek Hale.  


*******************  


The princess Jennifer was drumming her fingers on the four hundred year old tabletop.  


It was the most _satisfying noise._  


“Could you stop that?”  


Countess Kate Argent, the princess’ right (and left) hand, her nearest advisor, and her dearest friend lounged against the marble and gilt fireplace.  


“It helps me think,” her tone was not unkind, but neither was there any hint of apology in it.  


“Well think faster, my dear, because otherwise you’re going to end up married to a _dog_ ,” Kate's pretty face twisted into a scowl.  


“I know, thank you,” Jennifer said shortly, “It’s not like I want to marry the wolf-heir of Guilder, but my parents want the alliance, and it is politically sound, if incredibly nauseating.”  


“What if you told them you were in _love_ ,” another sneer from the countess.  


“But I’m not.”  


“That’s what lying is for, my dear Princess.”  


“And what good would that do us? My parents would want to meet them?”  


“So find somebody.”  


“And again, we end with me marrying some random stranger. When I marry I want it to be for my own reasons.”  


“And what would those be?”  


“I…” Jennifer’s mouth shut tightly, not hesitant, but rather, guarded.  


“Well, Princess, what do you want more than anything else in the world?”  


“You know what.”  


Kate hummed, “I might have a plan.”  


“Well, why didn’t you say that before?’  


*************  


“Phillip,” Talia Hale stopped in the middle of lifting a beam up to where her husband was reinforcing the barn loft, “why would the Countess visit us?”  


“Hold that up a little higher, would you, dear?”  


“Phillip,” Talia, leaned the six foot beam against the wall of the barn, “there is a horse that is not ours with a rider wearing clothes far too expensive for riding, coming very quickly up to the house. I suspect royalty and I would like to not be caught by surprise with a large piece of said house in my hands.”  


“Piece of barn. You're being vague, again, my dear."  


“And you are being literal again, _my love_ , so come down the ladder. I would rather not be left to be polite to rich people all alone.”  


“I think we _are_ rich people, Talia.”  


Countess Kate Argent wore silks and brocades like armor, her blood-dark family crest splattered over her saddle and the horse’s bridle. A sword hung at her side that glowed like the rising sun after the rain, the hilt covered in a king's ransom of jewels, the edge glinting even through the scabbard.  


“I need to talk to your son.”  


Talia found Derek stretched full length on the roof, staring morosely at the sky.  


It would have been sad if it hadn’t been two years. Two years since that letter, and she couldn’t remember seeing her son smile once.  


“Derek, you need to come down and be polite at Countess Argent.”  


“No.”  


“She can find back taxes even you never dreamed existed, dear, and if you don’t get down here now I’ll make you go next time one of the McArgent kids has a piano concert. On a full moon.”  


“You’re a horrible person.”  


“I’m your mother.”  


With a grunt, Derek pushed himself upright, swinging into the widow his mother was looking out of.  


“Countess Argent?”  


Talia nodded, “I was thinking of bringing her some lemonade.”  


“I think they expect money or hundred year old wine for bribes.”  


“I’m trying to keep her hydrated, not buy her mercy. Hopefully,” Talia raised an eyebrow at her son, “don’t make me change that.”  


“Yes, mom.”  


Countess Kate Argent was neither a tall nor a large woman, nor was she particularly beautiful, but she filled the room none-the-less, like she was imposing on Derek’s personal space without even moving.  


“We’ll leave you alone then,” Talia said, frowning pointedly at Derek before seeing herself out.  


The Countess waited, silent, her eyes traveling up and down Derek’s body in a way that made him want to cringe away and hide. She waited long enough that Derek could only assume she was waiting for wolfy ears to be out of range.  


He couldn’t quite quell the hope that his mother would hover nearby.  


“Can I help you?”  


The Countess’ grin had more teeth than any werewolf's, “my Princess has a proposal for you.”  


Derek barely bit back saying 'your princess can fuck off.' Laura probably would have laughed in his face and told him his 'repressing my urges' expression made him look constipated. Then she was have taken the offer and turned it around until it benefited her.  


All Derek managed was “yes?”  


Kate Argent...smirked, that was the only word for it, “you probably know that public opinion is that it's high time for Princess Blake to be finding a husband. Her parents and I were thinking that, well, a marriage between the royal family and one of the most influential packs in Florin would be a great advantage to both parties.”  


Derek wanted to ask what the hell that had to do with him, but instead he just repeated himself, “yes?'  


It seemed like the less offensive option.  


The Countess actually rolled her eyes, “in that case, her intended would be _you_ , Mr. Hale.”  


Derek, suddenly, wanted to puke, “why?”  


“I already told you. And besides,” she leered at him, “she has _seen_ you.”  


“No.” It came out curt and unpleasant, but he supposed it was better than _'oh fuck no. Not in this life. I would rather die!'_ It was less treasonous than vomiting all over the Countess' epicly expensive leather boots.  


“It's funny that you think it's a question,” Kate said, smirking.  


“I wasn't aware the royal family partook in rape.”  


Clearly Laura was speaking through Derek's mouth, because there was no other way he had just said something that damn...stupid.  


Hangable.  


“I think you'll find yourself consenting.”  


“You are aware that I'm already engaged, right?”  


“The Princess knows of your previous...dalliance. But I'm pretty sure your precious farm boy's undoubtedly violent demise by pirates negated any contract you might have entered into.”  


“I'm still in mourning.”  


“Only by your clearly delusional standards, my dear.”  


“I said no.”  


“That's too bad.” Kate pulled a sheaf of papers, thick and darkly printed and clearly official, from the case she had brought with her, “or, well, not. I had rather been looking forward to resorting to this,” she handed him the papers.  


The top sheet- god- it could have been one of his cousin's stupid practical jokes. A perfectly executed wanted poster, plastered with Laura's face and, in large, perfect, print: _Treason._  


The pages below looked like evidence.  


“What is this?”  


“Insurance,” Kate said, with a pleased smile. “You agree to the marriage and your family continues in the same high standing that they have always been allowed. This,” she waved at the papers, “goes away. You say no, then that not only goes public, but will be aggressively pursued. Your family will be ruined. Your sister found, and trust me, we know where she is, and quite publicly put to death. Probably on the day you really ought to have wed the Princess. You parents will lose everything.” She grinned at him, at his claws, ready to rend the paper to shreds, “don't bother. We have plenty of copies.”  


“I have no choice.”  


“Not really,” she pulled the papers from his grasp, “don't look so down. The Princess really is a very nice woman, and you'll have anything you've ever wanted. All you have to do is put on a nice face, play along, and this will end well for everyone.”  


“And if I tell?”  


“Who is there to tell? But if you did decide to,” she tapped the papers on the table, “same deal.”  


He just scowled at her.  


“So,” she said, smiling, “do you want to break the good news to your parents? Or shall I?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Do I have to do this?” Derek asked, scowling at his reflection in the mirror, shifting his shoulders under the heavy brocades that would have taken even his parents two years to pay for, but that Jennifer had demanded three copies of thrown out before deciding that cobalt blue was her favorite. 

Countess Argent smirked at him from her spot where she was leaning deliberately casually against the doorway. “Yes, yes you do.” 

Derek turned away from the mirror, unable to make sure anything else was tied or strapped in or...whatever. He couldn’t look at it anymore.

There was a _hat_.

It was _awful._

People were going to see it. 

Derek wasn’t sure if he was grateful that Laura wasn’t around to see it and mock him horribly, or incredibly depressed, because she, at least, wouldn’t have let him feel sorry for himself.

Then again, if she was here he wouldn’t be stuck in this god awful situation.

He settled on feeling nauseous. 

“Come on, pretty boy,” Argent’s voice was like eels, settling in his stomach, “you’ve got an adoring public to meet.”

If Laura had been there...if Stiles had been there...none of these were functional thoughts and Derek was about two minutes from breaking down and curling up in a corner and demanding his mother. Instead he squared his shoulders, ignored the snickering from the Countess, and let himself be escorted to the doors that would open when Princess Jennifer revealed the identity of her newly betrothed. Not that there was anyone that didn’t already know, but apparently that was just how things were done. Both Countess Argent and Princess Jennifer (who looked sweet, but had a spine like steel and a voice that brooked no argument) had said it would be expected. That people were there to cheer, not laugh. The inflection in both their tones said that they thought he was absurd for worrying.

Stiles would have thrown the first tomato.

The massive castle doors opened not a creak, oiled and polished into submission by the castle staff. 

Holy _shit_ that was a lot of people. 

“...Derek Hale”

Derek had missed whatever Jennifer was saying, but the not-so-subtle little jab of Countess Argent’s sword to the back of his knee prodded him forward, and Jennifer’s small, soft, terrifying strong hand reached out and took his. 

“Smile, my darling,” her voice was lighter, smoother than the Countess’, never outwardly controlling, but there was a hard edge to it.

Part of Derek wanted to hide under the table every time she came into the room. That said, if he concentrated on his fear of Jennifer he could almost ignore the terror spinning up from inside him at the sheer number of people looking at him. He had to breath. Had to remember that his parents were somewhere out there in the crowd and would probably be severely disturbed if he took the moment to pass out. Kate and Jennifer would certainly be pissed.

 _Breathe_ , he reminded himself. _It’s not like anyone out there is waiting to kill you._

He was wrong.

At least three people were. 

  


Afterward Derek went for a run.

There was nothing like it to momentarily free his mind, to make him feel like maybe, just maybe he could escape and, with adrenaline coursing through him he wouldn’t think about how he would have to turn back, to return to the castle, to Jennifer, to _Kate._

Visiting his parents was poor comfort. He hurt from lying to them, and his mother _knew_ something was wrong and Derek wasn’t actually sure it was at all reassuring, knowing he could out-stubborn his mother. 

So he rarely went home. 

He paused momentarily, where the woods met the wide channel between Florin and Guilder, resting his hands on his knees, not letting himself look out to sea. It had become custom to stop there, to lose time, staring out to where, he presumed, Stiles had met some sort of gruesome death.

He rarely saw anyone other than fisherman, who normally went about their business and didn’t bother him. So when he heard footsteps in the woods he didn’t look up. Which meant he jumped when a voice addressed him.

“Pardon me,” the voice from the side of the road was deep, smooth, “we are but humble circus performers, hoping that you could perhaps, tell us where a poor, blind wolf and his few remaining acts might have the best luck plying their skills?”

Derek’s head came up, trying to pick out the details of scent on the strange, new wolf. He missed the soft footsteps behind him, and the wolfsbane and chloroform laced cloth was pressed over his mouth before he had a chance to struggle. 

  


He came around to the rocking of a boat on the sea, a little disappointed that he wasn’t dead.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea,” he heard a voice ask, “keeping him alive? He looks like he could put up a fight.”

“That is what the wolfsbane laced rope is for,” a voice replied, the same deep voice from the darkness before.

That, at least, explained the burning in his wrists and ankles, and the raging headache.

“It seems unnecessarily cruel,” the first voice said, softer, very much younger than the other. The wolfsbane was fucking with his scent of smell, he couldn’t pick up anything about the younger speaker, it was aggravating. “And,” the voice continued, taking on a bit of a whine, “it’s giving me the sniffles.”

“You are here,” the deep voice snapped, “to carry heavy things, not to whinge at me about your avoidable maladies. Move away from him if it’s bothering you.” 

“But you told me to watch him.”

“Switch with Boyd, then, at least he won’t whine about it.”

“Hey boss,” a new voice, with a faint Guilderian accent, “I thought you said it was the wrong time of year for night fishing.”

“That’s because it is,” the deepest voice snapped. Derek wanted to open to open his eyes, to see who had grabbed him, but his captors hadn’t seemed to notice that he was awake yet, and he wanted to keep it that way.

“Might want to tell that to _him_.”

There was a long pause, “probably some poorly informed tourist,” the deep voice said.

“That’s a really big boat for fishing,” the younger, softer voice suggested.

“Again, Isaac, how many times must I remind you, I am not paying you to think. Go wake Cora, let her take over for you.”

Derek tensed as he heard the footsteps move away. If he could just get the right leverage…

He hunched upright and threw himself, still bound, towards where he had heard water lapping at the side of the boat. 

Freefall was...fascinating. His shoulder hit the rail of the deck as he lurched over it and his fall was thrashing and strange and cold.

He had never wanted to drown, and it wasn’t an entirely pleasant thought, but it was the choice he had--

Until he was violently halted by a large hand gripping the back of his shirt, nearly choking him on his own collar as he was hauled back onto the boat.

“There are sharks in the water, you idiot,” the Guilderian’s voice rumbled in his ear. The man smelled like wolf. Like not-pack. Like Guilder soil and alien territory. 

“Thought you wanted me dead,” Derek rumbled.

“That was Isaac,” the man said, “we need you alive until Guilder.”

“Only until?” Derek asked, his voice hurting against his throat.

“Only until,” the very first voice confirmed, “does Cora still have the wolfsbane?”

“I do,” a woman’s voice, scent, footsteps, and the cloth covered his nose and mouth and, once again, the world went dark.

****************************

Cora stared down at the man unconscious on the deck. He was pretty, sure, but he looked goddamn familiar.

She looked up at her current boss, and just past his ear in the distance something caught her eye.

“There’s boat gaining on us,” she said.

Deucalion turned his face over his shoulder and sniffed, “it’s a fishing boat.”

“Are they fishing for sharks?” she couldn’t stop the snark from slipping into her tone.

“Presumably,” Deucalion said dryly, “for whatever sharks eat. But if you’re feeling anxious about it you could try speeding us up a bit.”

“This is a _sailboat_ ,” Cora said, “we’re at full sail. There isn’t any speedier we can really get. Unless you want to get out and push.”

“Then go steer.”

“I thought you wanted me to watch the captive?”

“Unless you’ve _failed_ at rendering him unconscious and unable to drown his idiot self again I believe you can make yourself more useful by steering.”

Cora waved off a half-assed salute and, in the pale predawn light, headed off to the tiller of their small skiff. She couldn’t quite help glancing back. 

It really did look like the other boat was following them. 

She shrugged and turned back to face the cliffs that rose from the channel as if someone had dropped the blade of a guillotine into the water and forgotten to lift it again. From their current distance they looked absolutely sheer, but Boyd had been confident when telling Deucalion that he and Isaac could climb them. With a rope, sure, but it was still impressive. She was a werewolf and still, standing at the base of the cliffs and staring up into madness, she had know even her wolf strength would give out before the top. 

“Boyd,” Deucalion’s voice was more demand than request from the prow of the boat.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Fastest ship in Guilder, you said. Outstrips any of Florin’s by miles, you said. And yet a fisherman smells as if he is gaining on us.”

“He might have a wind we don’t,” Boyd sounded unperturbed by the older man’s accusing tone.

“Or maybe this ship just isn’t that perfect?”

“The ship isn’t all of it. We’re almost at the cliffs anyway.”

“You better hope your confidence is deserved.”

Boyd, safe behind their boss’ blindness, just raised an eyebrow. Cora had to kick Isaac before he started giggling. Deucalion, as far as any of them could figure, couldn’t hear facial expressions, but there was no way he would miss Isaac’s girly fucking giggles. 

The other boat was still on their trail when they reached the cliffs, though Cora couldn’t tell if it was actually turning to follow them or just heading vaguely towards a similar shore.

She looked up at Deucalion, who had tucked his cane into a holster on his back and was crawling up the rope Boyd had left ready for them in a way that reminded her disturbingly of an object-less shadow. Isaac helped strap their still unconscious prisoner onto Boyd’s back before turning to Cora, offering her a grin that was more shy than flirtatious.

“Going up?”

Getting onto Isaac’s back, clinging like a child while he hauled them both up the seemingly eternal side of the cliff after Body was humiliatingly like a piggy-back ride. 

Still, she reminded herself, she could kill Isaac in a thousand different ways before he had a chance to get those ridiculously strong hands around her neck. There was no goddamn reason for her pride to be stinging.

“Did Cora decide that climbing wasn’t beneath her, after all?” Deucalion’s voice came down from the top of the cliff.

“She’s with Isaac,” Boyd cut in, before Cora could snap back anything that would permanently damage her career (and possibly her life). 

“Then why,” came Deucalion’s voice, “is there a third set of hands on the rope?”

Cora looked down at the sheer drop of cliff and--at the _man_ who was climbing up behind them.

“We have a tag along,” she said, not bothering to yell, knowing all three other wolves would hear her. 

“Excuse me?”

It was insulting, Cora thought, that Deucalion automatically assumed that she was lying. Though, she tipped her head to the wind and sniffed, it was strange that past Isaac and the sea she couldn’t smell _anyone_. Above her she could pick out traces of Deucalion and Boyd and their captive. Small animals, too, if she sniffed past that. Below her? Only rocks.

Either her eyes or her nose was lying to her, and considering Deucalion’s ear corroborated her eyes she had to assume it was her nose. 

“Can you smell him?” she asked Isaac.

“No…”

“Perhaps my dear Cora could put her precious sword to use,” Deucalion purred from the clifftop.

“Perhaps Cora is a little busy hanging on for dear life,” Cora snapped. It wasn’t so much that she was afraid of heights. Heights, under her own control, could be fun. But dangling from someone else’s neck? Not really her favorite thing. She wasn’t about to hang from Isaac one handed just to use the other to hack at the rope below them.

“Then you better speed up,” Deucalion said, “because as soon as Boyd is up here with the princess’ prize I’m cutting the rope.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Cora bit out, forcibly keeping back her own change when she felt Isaac trembling beneath her. “Shift, genius,” she muttered in his ear, “we don’t have to die.”

The change in Isaac’s muscles under her hands was...disconcerting. A thing she hadn’t felt since she was a toddler and a teenaged cousin had given her a piggy-back ride through the woods. Suddenly they were moving faster, Isaac’s claws digging into the rope to pull them along till they were right on Boyd’s heels as he pulled himself and his now clearly awake passenger up onto the top of the cliff. Deucalion, claws out, was already tearing at the strands of the rope as Isaac practically threw them both up onto solid ground in a move that would probably have left Cora broken for weeks had she been human. 

The rope parted under the tearing of claws and hissed down the cliffs, crashing into the water below with a splash that echoed in Cora’s ears. She was still rolling her shoulders, trying to make sure that everything was back in place when she heard a soft, perplexed noise from Isaac, who was peering over the edge of the cliff. 

“What is it?” Boyd, having made sure that their captive, still bound and scowling was, in fact, secure, went over to join Isaac at the cliffside, “oh.”

“Well,” Deucalion snapped, “don’t leave the rest of us out of the loop, now.”

“He let go in time,” Isaac said, a hint of marvel in his voice, “he’s still on the cliff.”

“Inconceivable!” 

Cora stopped rubbing a kink out of her neck to stare at their boss, “what?”

Deucalion rolled his eyes surprisingly well, for a blind man, “it means that something is extraordinarily unlikely, beyond believable, not, in fact,”

“I know what it means,” Cora said, “I just don’t think it is. Considering that Isaac and Boyd just hauled themselves and an extra up here apiece.” 

“If you think it’s so manageable then you can stay here and confirm that he falls.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“That would be…”

“Sure. but what if he doesn’t fall?”

“Then kill him, of course. You don’t think we have you along for any other reason, do you?”

Cora shrugged, a bare, tiny, movement in her shoulder before realizing that Deucalion couldn’t see it and saying, “no. Of course not.”

Isaac pulled himself away from where he was staring down at the man in black, “do you want me to stay with you?”

“I need you to help Boyd with the prisoner,” Deucalion snapped, “not to baby our swordsman.”

Cora smiled thinly at Isaac, “I’m good.” It didn’t matter if she had been shaken a moment ago, she was nearly perfectly healed now and, on the chance the man did make it to the top she would still have some long, incredibly boring, minutes waiting for him to rest up. Tired she could beat a gang of six, with a bit of rest, maybe ten. One man, no matter how strong, would not be an issue. 

If she was lucky, he would at least be strong enough to be a challenge. 

She wondered if there was any chance he was a woman. 

“What if he’s just some...guy who likes climbing or something?” Isaac asked, hesitating as Boyd got their captive up and slung over his shoulder.

“Then he’s still seen us, and could identify us. It doesn’t matter.” Deucalion turned back to Cora, “just finish him quickly, and catch up.”

“Not too quickly,” Cora muttered without thinking, staring down at the man who, against all odds, was moving up the cliff face towards her.

“There is no such thing as too quickly when you have a deadline,” Deucalion said, teeth bared, “we’re here to start a war, not get you more fencing practice. You’d do well to remember that.” 

“Yeah,” Cora said, absently. 

“See you soon,” Isaac called to her.

“This is an act of treason,” Deucalion snapped, as he stalked away, “not summer camp, you fools.”

Cora watched the man climb for as long as she could stand to be still. Stretching took up barely ten minutes and the man was only a few feet closer to the top. Theoretically it was extremely impressive. In reality it was quite boring. 

As an alternative to going stir crazy she took her sword, the one that was perfect, clean, beautiful, with a balance so pure it nearly lifted itself, and lifted it to the light, turning it this way and that, thinking of her father, her mother, and revenge. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My name is Cora Hale, you killed my father, prepare to die."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am *so* *sorry* this took so damned long. I've had this chapter nearly complete (if un-betaed) for essentially two years (terrifying thought). I really am trying to finish this thing.

Domingo Hale (a second or third cousin, actually, whose great grandfather had become estranged from the rest of the large wolf clan after an...incident...with a cabbage) lived in a tiny mountain village far to the south of Florin. He was not a rich man, nor a famous man, nor, for that matter, a happy man.

He was, however, a driven man.

As an adult Cora found herself frankly amazed that her parents had managed to have any children at all, much less four. As far as she could tell her father had married her mother as a cheap way to have someone else around to occasionally remind him to do things like eat or (more occasionally still) bathe. On the same token, the children were very good janitors once they were old enough to hold a broom, even if they were using it to prop themselves upright as they learned to walk.

Cora had always practically worshipped her father, despising what, at ten, she perceived as her mother’s lack of backbone, especially when compared to her father’s passion.

Mostly Domingo made horseshoes and farm tools. There wasn’t much call for else in small mountain villages, and they didn’t have the money to afford a forage anywhere else. Off in the corner, though, there was always a pile of half made swords, kicked aside as if in a fit of frustration, which, indeed, was exactly what would happen.

Occasionally his childhood friends would stop by and exclaim at the near perfection of Domingo’s current project only to be met with a sneer of derision. 

Between that and the thin broth that Arabella Hale served almost every meal the friends tended not to return. Except for Deaton. The Guilderian veterinarian would stop by once a year for what he proclaimed the most perfect horseshoes on the continent.

Domingo would sneer, “but they are only _horseshoes._ ”

Deaton would smile, “but without my horse how could I come see my favorite family? How would we farm, or explore? The world needs your horseshoes, Domingo.” and Arabella would beam, and put actual potatoes in the thin broth as Deaton played with Sammy, the Hale’s youngest. Then he would leave for another year.

  


One day, while Domingo was tinkering with the already fine edge of a sword, a rider came up the tiny path to their cottage. 

“Horseshoes are five gold a piece, and it will take me one day to complete them,” Domingo called out from the inside of his smithy.

“I did not ride two hundred miles for horseshoes,” a woman’s voice replied. Cora stopped where she had been cleaning her father’s tools to stare at the stranger. She had taken them for a man as they rode up to the house in brocade hose and a tunic, but, besides the bell of her voice and the curves of her body, there was the long, honey- gold waves of her hair that hung down her back. She was strikingly beautiful, with grey eyes like the sea after the storm- and just as cold as she stared down at Cora. 

“Is this how you greet your betters, girl?” 

Domingo nearly tripped over Cora hurrying to get between his daughter (who had been known, on occasion-if that occasion was daily- to open her mouth without thinking) and their visitor. 

“What can we do for you today, m’lady?”

“I need a sword.”

“I’m only a humble village smith, m’lady, I…”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear any excuses or reasoning, I’ve seen your horseshoes,” the woman sneered, “though what that has to do with swordsmithing...not that I care. I need a sword. I’ve heard you like a challenge.”

“I have never-”

“You’ve never been able to make one that satisfied you. It’s a problem that you never have the time to devote to it, what with the, oh so plebian concern of making enough money to feed your strangely huge family,” she tipped her head in a suggestive nod, “I can give you the money.” 

“Exactly what is it that m’lady would like?”

“It’s not simple, and if you fail I will demand all the money back.” 

"If I fail, m'lady, you can demand my life."

"I'll hold you to that."

  


For a year Domingo barely slept or ate, catching naps half upright, leaning against the forge in his workshop. Cora was set to work stoking the fires in the forge, in a schedule nearly as punishing as her father's for fear the coals might dim in the night. Arabella took to sending her youngest son out to the forge with food to cajole the two into eating. 

But the sword, when it was done, was spectacular.

Making a sword that was not only silver plated but sliver through and through, was no easy trick. it was too soft, too light to be anything but an epee. But the lady had been clear, it could be no mere fencing toy, it needed to pierce skin and muscle, deep enough to kill. No little throat slitting daggers required. It was physics and chemistry perfected to make a blade that would stand up to real steel crashing down against it. 

Steel or possibly sharp, bone claws. Because Cora knew of only one reason for a silver blade.

Which left her wondering, deep in her brain and only at night, what exactly it was her father thought he was doing. They had wolves in the family. Cousins of hers. And a weapon like that, like Lady Argent’s, was a weapon meant for a specific sort of war. 

Every time Cora saw the sword it seemed to grow more beautiful. Even once it was something that wouldn’t break, something long and light and stronger than anything, it wasn’t enough for Domingo. It was a work of art, and even on the morning that the Lady Argent was supposed to return to claim it he was still working, had been up all night, adding and removing perfect designs from the hilt, testing the balance, the edge. 

Cora was bringing Domingo his breakfast when Kate Argent came up the path, large men on larger horses flanking her on the left and the right. She dropped the bowl of thin porridge on the ground to run and warn her father. He would hardly like to be surprised by his client. Even if he supposedly knew she was coming.

It would hardly be the first time Domingo forgot what day it was. 

“She’s here,” Cora gasped out, bracing herself against the doorway, swinging into the room, “ she’s here, dad, she’s back.”

“Now?” Domingo’s head shot up from where he was bent over the forge, his hastily chopped, sometimes singed beard wet with sweat, “she’s early.”

“She’s not. I told you yesterday.”

“She’s early!” one wiry arm snapped out, a hammer flying across the room and missing Cora by a mere foot.

“I’m afraid I’m really not,” Kate Argent said from behind Cora in the doorway, her wide mouth stretched into a grin full of many, many teeth, “where’s my sword, Hale? Or are you going to tell me it’s not done? I would hate to have to kill you. Maybe.”

“If my lady wills it done, it is done,” Domingo turned to lift the sword from where it was cooling on a workbench. It seemed too small to be what Cora knew that it was, too perfect, slender and light to be able to slice cleanly through bone.

Yet her father had used it to butcher a pig the other day. 

Not that they had gotten to keep the pig. 

Kate’s hand, broader than any other woman’s Cora had ever met, reached out to wrap around the hilt of the blade. It moved through the air like an extension of her arm, and it seemed to part around the metal. The Lady’s eyebrows raised,

“It’s nice, I’ll give you fifty.”

“You said one hundred,” all the submission was gone from Domingo’s posture.

“I know what I said,” Lady Argent drawled, “but this is worth fifty.”

“Where else will you find a silver sword so strong it will stand up to werewolf bone and claw? The balance is perfect.”

“And yet you were still working on it, even up to the night before I arrived. So it could be more perfect. Fifty.”

“No.”

“No?” she laughed, “I have it in my hand and you’re telling me no?”

“We agreed on a hundred. If you won’t give me that I’ll keep the sword.”

Domingo reached out.

Cora saw the the blood springing from her father’s chest before she even saw the blade move in the Lady’s hand. She felt a noise leave her throat, but couldn’t hear it as she lurched forward, trying to grab the collapsing man only to be born to the ground under his dead weight. 

There was a sword in the bin of scrap metal by the brazier. Something her father had thrown aside in his attempts to make the Lady’s weapon, and it came into her hand easily.

“What’s this?” Lady Argent laughed, “do you think you have claws, little girl?”

“I’ll kill you.”

“You won’t even scratch me, child. Now put that down, like a good girl.” 

Cora’s first blow glanced aside off the Lady’s sword (her father’s sword), and Cora found herself stumbling past her, into the waiting, meaty paws of one of her followers.

“Shall I, m’lady?”

“Oh, no,” Kate Argent turned to face her, the sword like a taunt in her grasp, “a lady doesn’t make someone else fight her battles. Come on, girl, come at me.”

Cora lurched forward, pulling out of the man’s grasp, only to her sword knocked aside by nothing but Kate Argent’s gloved hand and that sword, the one her father had made, opened a stripe in the flesh along her cheek.

“Ready to yield yet, girl?”

Cora couldn’t see when she rushed forward, just moving towards the voice, feeling steel- silver, against her cheek, then something falling heavily against the back of her skull.

When she came to she could smell smoke, overpowering and choking. Her head felt like one giant, throbbing bruise, and she was swimming in nauseating heat. 

She didn’t know that concussion could induce a fever. 

Forcing her eyes open made her stomach lurch, the world was a wavering mass of flickering reds and golds, and the scorch of --

_fire_

She rolled, trying to push herself upright, only to fall heavily back onto her face on the quickly heating stone of the forge floor. She could feel it now, separate from the ache in her every muscle, the ropes bound tight around her wrists and ankles. And the forge was on fire. They had bound her up and left her to burn. But the fire was started at the doorway and by the forge itself, they hadn’t had the grace to kill her, left her to burn. Expect her to wake, screaming, as the fire licked at her clothes, caught in her hair, leaving her burning and screaming with no way to run. 

She was going to kill them. Going to get out of there and kill them all. With a sword, a poker, a fucking hammer, whatever she could get her hands on. 

She had to swallow back the bile that rose in her throat when she forced herself upright, listing terrifyingly near to the fire on her left, fighting to see through the haze of smoke. Her father’s workshop was full of sharp objects, it wasn’t like she had any need to be picky. 

Her father’s body was still slumped on the floor by the anvil. 

The hammer he had thrown at her was on the floor by a wall that was quickly disappearing behind smoke and fire. She wormed her way over to it. It was sizzling hot against her wrists as she leaned back against the edge, sharp from years of striking against metal and stone. it didn't take much work to cut through the ropes at her wrist, the strands coming apart half cut and half singed. Her hands throbbed in pain from coming burns as she struggled to untie her feet. 

The smoke was darkening, choking her. She couldn't see far enough to find some sort of weapon to take from the forge with her, the hammer at her feet now too hot to touch. 

Maybe they were gone, anyway. None of it would matter if she didn't leave, now.

The door was barred. 

The wood of the door seared her shoulder as she fell against it, threw herself against it, as fast and hard as she could for the pain and the heat of it, for the complete lack of air in her lungs, till something gave way and she tumbled out into the smoky, barely cooler air outside. 

She lay on the ground, gasping, trying to urge herself upright, to look around. Her muscles ached and her skin stung and all she wanted was to stay there, to close her eye and rest. 

There were footsteps, a figure towering above her.

“You’re alive?” Kate Argent seemed almost to laugh, “you’ve got balls, girl, I’ll give you that.

“Here,” something clattered to the ground in front of her, “you can keep the sword.” 

She heard the horses ride off. Some long minutes later she felt the flames from the forge licking at her feet, and managed to roll herself upright, trying to stumble away towards the house, to find her mother, as long as she was...

The heat on her face shocked her into looking up. The tiny house she had grown up in was one huge mass of flames, a bar dropped across the door. 

  


She made it to Deaton's house a month later, when her hair had started growing, and the scabs almost done itching, with the sword strapped to her waist with a half charred piece of rope. 

Deaton hadn't panicked, hadn't yelled, had just gestured her inside and handed her a giant pot of salve that smelled like...vomit, mostly...and instructed her to put it on anything that was skin. 

She informed him that if she had wanted to be made into a greased seal she would have gone and joined the circus. 

Deaton just looked at her assesingly, and then left- coming back moments later with something horribly green in a cup that he held patiently until she was done slathering herself down. It made a little dent in the parched desert that she was calling her throat, but the smell nearly had it coming right up again. She had to bite down on bile to keep from undoing whatever good Deaton had managed to accomplish. 

He asked her, carefully, and clearly aware of what had happened, what she was planning to do-without ever asking if she was okay- as if he knew that it would only make her turn and go. 

"I just...need a place to stay for a few days."

"You can stay as long as you need. We could find you something if you like, a job in an inn, perhaps, or with a tailor."

"No."

"No?"

"I have to go."

"Where to?"

"My cousin's, first."

They were cousins on the Hale side, weres a generation older than her who welcomed her cautiously when they saw what she wore strapped to her hip. The confusion was only compounded by her request. 

She needed every advantage she could get. 

She didn't go to the best, at first, she knew they would never take her. She started with the best in the town, an old man who had made some money acting in fencing matches for rich men too proud to risk their own lives. He had to be reasonably good, she figured, he was still alive. 

From there, she went to the best in the district, then the best in the region, then the country. Up and up, devouring everything they could teach her, and half the things they didn't know she was learning. Up, until she had Ulrich of Brighton, the last master of fencing, on his knees before her.

Which was when she realized that, in the last ten years of studying swordplay she hadn’t gotten any idea of how one went about finding one’s greatest enemy. She hadn’t developed a network beyond swordsmen, who didn’t want to talk to her because she had humiliated them, and smiths, who only wanted to talk to her about the money she owed them. 

And, fuck, she didn’t even know which country to start in. Deaton wouldn’t tell her anything, he had some strange idea that she was going to get herself killed. Trying to explain to him that she didn’t really give a shit about that just netted her several hours of psychological counseling that she only barely got out of without being sent to some mental institution, and even then probably only because Deaton realized that she could kill anyone trying to take her away with, if not her sword, basically any given stick-like object. 

It wasn’t worth crossing her- she knew 200 way to kill a man with a twig. 

Kate Argent was beyond her reach. 

  


Cora had been drunk for weeks when he found her, her search at a useless dead end, her money nearly used up, and only the fact that she had (accidentally) foiled an attempted burglary had left the (fabulously buxom) barmaid in a good enough mood to continue her supply of watery beer. At first she just rolled over and tried to huddle into the hard wall beside her at the cough from above her, but a sharp kick in the ribs had her blinking up into the painful sunlight at the two blurred faces above her.

One of them was very, very high above her, a goddamn halo of sunlight around his face.

Oh wait, no, that was absurdly curly hair.

“Need a hand up?”

“Eh,” she sneered, “I like it down here.”

“Get her up.”

The voice came from somewhere behind the giant blonde, or maybe below, from her sideways perspective Cora couldn't really tell.

”Fuck you,” Cora spat at the voice, pulling her sword out from under her, “and fuck off.

”I have a business proposition for you,” the voice said, as a tall man stepped past the two already hovering over her, moving close, as if he didn’t even see the sword. The tip of his cane rested against the ground near her knee, but his eyes were unfocused, facing the tavern wall about her head. Unseeing. 

”Don’t need your money.”

The man shrugged, “I had something else in mind.”

Cora yawned, trying to make it clear that she was already bored, that there was shit all the man could offer that would interest her.

”I can tell you where to find Kate Argent.”

**Author's Note:**

> So- this is a bit more of a movie crossover Princess Bride-wise, than book. Though the book definitely is going to play into it (I love it. I love it so much I got up at midnight to look for it. And eventually realized that I had, somehow, left it on the other side of the country when I moved.) That said, Buttercup and Westley's relationship is nearly the total opposite of romantic, and while that's probably exactly why I like the book so goddamn much, Derek deserves better than, you know, being a complete twit 24/7.  
> Maybe just 18/7. That sounds about right.


End file.
